I sit in front of a computer for about 10 hours every day, only to come home and to delve into reading blogs, articles, and occasionally ranting about stuff on my blog. Thankfully there's always TV for a change of scenery and expanding the brain.
So the boyfriend and I moved in together. In Queens. In a 2-bedroom. The second bedroom could very well be an oversized walk-in closet, but we will give it the benefit of the doubt.
My rent naturally increased proportionally to the amount of space we have now (about double). In return the shower sprays something that pretends to be hot water but after 5 min gives up and turns cold. The radiators are loudly oppinionated and throw tantrums with no warning.
Underneeth us is a lovely lady in her 100ths, who paid me a visit to tell me that, despite the fact that we have carpeting, and that I walk barefoot, I step so hard that their light (they live below us) blinks. Which leaves housewarming party out of the question. I suppose mastering teleportation or levitation might help.
The love-nest is a five-floor walk up, where the boyfriend broke his back last Saturday in order to carry all the boxes of mostly useless stuff that we both own, as well as a couch and a mattress. The whole time he was stoically carrying stuff up the tower, I was already planning my escape and thinking that if I ever get to move out of here, I'll just pick up a backpack with my paperwork and leave everything else here. Kind of like the movie "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" -- when the hero's mother died, but she was so temendously fat that they couldn't take the corpse out of the house. So they just said "fuck it" and set the whole house on fire. That's how I see myself leaving this place - by settin everything on fire.
The boyfriend seems pretty cheerful about this apartment. He points out that we live on a busy street with lot of shops. True - the neighbourhood is Middle Eastern/Arab. We live across from a small mosque, and are surrounded by coffee shops with hookah smoking customers. Midtown Manhattan is 5 stops away -- pretty much my ray of sunshine in this whole living arrangement so far.
I don't know what I expected when we decided to move in with the boyfriend. I'm just annoyed by the cold shower. I couldn't go to work with greasy hair so I washed it in the kitchen sink that has hot water.
Another thing that particularly stresses me out is that I cannot/have no desire to cook. I also hate cleaning of any sort. I'm ready to pay a maid to come by once a week than to dust, vacuum and scrub. I could be spending that time out with friends (that I see so little of lately) drinking after annoying day at work. And now I feel that, as the girlfriend of the house, it is understood that I'll assume my womanly resposibilies. I've always thought that someday I'll earn so much money that I'll never have to learn how to cook/clean, and I'm still working on that goal.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Ye Olde Trip to London
Not a week after returning home (Brooklyn, NY) from home (Bulgaria) I was on a plane to London (definitely not home). This is my second trip to the old capital - however never seem to remember that traffic moves on the wrong side (left), and I regularly cause taxi drivers arrhythmia while crossing streets (by the way, cabs are taxis here). Perhaps this is a conspiracy of the British government to clear their blue blood population off those pesky foreigners. London, much like New York, is full of aliens. I get the feeling almost all of the staff in our hotel is from the former Soviet Union.
The price of our hotel includes a full English breakfast (bound to clog some of your blood vessels with the variety of sausages and bacon). The concierge, though incredibly helpful and knowledgeable of London, is almost as greasy as the breakfast and annoyingly servile -- I’m sure for the right tip he could find me a hit man and a kilo of cocaine. And since he's there every day all day, he knows precisely when I come, and go, when I eat breakfast, etc.
Central London's streets are narrow. Sometimes what might look like a narrow passage between two buildings is actually a street and cabs fly through it. Cabs are quite charming - unchanged since the mid-nineteen century, they have high roofs, so the gentlemen could ride without having to take off their top hats. They fit five people and there's plenty of leg room. They have no trunk, but surprisingly all our oversized luggage fit.
Despite my crazy work schedule I had an afternoon this Sunday to walk about and attempt to snatch me a prince or at least a duke. No princes or dukes were in sight so I went on to admire the old architecture - you know, the Buckingham palace, the Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar square. Then I guess I made the wrong (or right) turn off Piccadilly Circus because I found myself on a sex-shop/striptease filled street where two girls (about my age) were hustling passing men to come see the show.
One of the meetings I had to attend was held in a pub called the Red Lion. I waved a taxi, but when I told the driver the name of the place, he asked - "Which one?” Apparently the Red Lion is quite a common name for a pub. Other common names are "The Lamb and the Lion", "The Pig and the Whistle", "The Fat Cat", "The Old Archbishop and the Naughty Choir Boy" (last one is made up but not unlikely). English pubs open around noon and close at twelve at night. I was told that the tradition comes from the past, when men had to get up for work (mine, factory, etc.) before dawn, and by closing the pubs by 12 am men were forced to go home instead of drink all night. I find this old tradition quite barbaric -- where is a self-respecting Bulgarian supposed to drink when visiting London? However locals usually have a little something around noon, which makes their afternoon pass by quickly (which is not a bad idea). I ordered a drink and lunch in the Red Lion and the bartendress asked me for the money right away -- I was quite offended, what is she thinking that I'm going to dine and dash -- it turns out this is how they do it.
London's weather really is London's weather - you never know what you are going to get, but you can always bet on rain.
Stay tuned.
The price of our hotel includes a full English breakfast (bound to clog some of your blood vessels with the variety of sausages and bacon). The concierge, though incredibly helpful and knowledgeable of London, is almost as greasy as the breakfast and annoyingly servile -- I’m sure for the right tip he could find me a hit man and a kilo of cocaine. And since he's there every day all day, he knows precisely when I come, and go, when I eat breakfast, etc.
Central London's streets are narrow. Sometimes what might look like a narrow passage between two buildings is actually a street and cabs fly through it. Cabs are quite charming - unchanged since the mid-nineteen century, they have high roofs, so the gentlemen could ride without having to take off their top hats. They fit five people and there's plenty of leg room. They have no trunk, but surprisingly all our oversized luggage fit.
Despite my crazy work schedule I had an afternoon this Sunday to walk about and attempt to snatch me a prince or at least a duke. No princes or dukes were in sight so I went on to admire the old architecture - you know, the Buckingham palace, the Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar square. Then I guess I made the wrong (or right) turn off Piccadilly Circus because I found myself on a sex-shop/striptease filled street where two girls (about my age) were hustling passing men to come see the show.
One of the meetings I had to attend was held in a pub called the Red Lion. I waved a taxi, but when I told the driver the name of the place, he asked - "Which one?” Apparently the Red Lion is quite a common name for a pub. Other common names are "The Lamb and the Lion", "The Pig and the Whistle", "The Fat Cat", "The Old Archbishop and the Naughty Choir Boy" (last one is made up but not unlikely). English pubs open around noon and close at twelve at night. I was told that the tradition comes from the past, when men had to get up for work (mine, factory, etc.) before dawn, and by closing the pubs by 12 am men were forced to go home instead of drink all night. I find this old tradition quite barbaric -- where is a self-respecting Bulgarian supposed to drink when visiting London? However locals usually have a little something around noon, which makes their afternoon pass by quickly (which is not a bad idea). I ordered a drink and lunch in the Red Lion and the bartendress asked me for the money right away -- I was quite offended, what is she thinking that I'm going to dine and dash -- it turns out this is how they do it.
London's weather really is London's weather - you never know what you are going to get, but you can always bet on rain.
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
To Return to Your Father's Home
Sofia is my home, not because it is Sofia, but because my parents and grandparents live there. I know that no matter what happens to me I'll always have a home to return (this has always been a lifesaving thought especially in a fucked up city like New York). My Mom, and my grandparents who love me to death spoil the hell out of me – letting me sleep till late, feeding me like a pig, giving me pocket money when I go out. I had taken some spending money before I left New York but didn't spend a dime, Mom simply won't let me do it, she even got offended when I wanted to pay for myself. I miss being unconditionally loved and taken care of.
I was concerned with how my parents and cat will view the boyfriend, and how the boyfriend will react to them. Both sides were civil and dare say liked each other – otherwise they must be pretty good actors. Boyfriend was also introduced to several of my friends. While in Sofia I decided that we should take advantage of the cheap medical care, and dragged him to a dentist. The dentist took longer than expected, but in the last couple of days (of the 6 day stay) he did see part of Bulgaria.
Boyfriend drank a fair amount of rakia (Bulgarian vodka), ate the traditional Shopska salata (tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh opinion, fresh garlic, baked peeled pepper, lettuce), learned how to say several things in Bulgarian, was dragged around a historical preserved town called Koprivshtiza famous for its revolutionary movement against the Turkish Yoke in the 19 century (with several houses turned into museums – 3 hours away from Sofia), bought himself a T-shirt with “Bulgaria” written on it and a "Bulgaria" sticker for his car, ate my Grandma's baklava, saw the homeless dogs roaming Sofia, admired some of the communist monuments built about the city, was dragged to a Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in the National Art Gallery, rode a post-Communist-leftover open lift to the top of Sofia's nearby mountain - Vitosha while drinking a shot of rakia to keep warm from the freezing mountain weather, admired the snow and clouds covered peak of Vitosha once the lift got us up (the snow was above his knees), survived two visits to the Grandparents where they had him drink Bulgarian smooth red wine, Bulgarian beer and rakia at the same time, saw the trash of the back neighborhoods where people do not acknowledge trash bins and don’t seem to mind living in dirt, was surprised on how cheap is everything for an American, rode on a street tram, was dragged into the golden cupola-ed Alexander Nevski Cathedral in the center of Sofia, my friends showed us to several dives (basements, private apartments) that are only know by a word of mouth – there he observed Bulgarian youth getting drunk, boyfriend was surprised that people smoked everywhere and that my Mom would not stop smoking even while we were having dinner, he saw the rope "system" that my Mom had on the balcony for drying clothes (for some reason she resists the idea of a dryer), he was laughing at me when suddenly I forgot how to say something in Bulgarian (so embarrassing – almost like Madonna and her British accent), he was hugged and kissed by my crying Grandma on the last day before leaving, drank coffee in small glasses, ate Bulgarian cheese (like fetta cheese but much better) and yogurt with honey, he saw communist era apartment buildings (blocks), was amazed by the parking lack of regulations where people simply parked their cars on the sidewalk. There were so many more things I wanted him to see – like the numerous mountains, and the Black See, and the historical towns, and the monasteries, and the remains of the Roman Empire scattered across Bulgaria.
There are so many more things that happened, however I think I should save some for a book or something.
I was concerned with how my parents and cat will view the boyfriend, and how the boyfriend will react to them. Both sides were civil and dare say liked each other – otherwise they must be pretty good actors. Boyfriend was also introduced to several of my friends. While in Sofia I decided that we should take advantage of the cheap medical care, and dragged him to a dentist. The dentist took longer than expected, but in the last couple of days (of the 6 day stay) he did see part of Bulgaria.
Boyfriend drank a fair amount of rakia (Bulgarian vodka), ate the traditional Shopska salata (tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh opinion, fresh garlic, baked peeled pepper, lettuce), learned how to say several things in Bulgarian, was dragged around a historical preserved town called Koprivshtiza famous for its revolutionary movement against the Turkish Yoke in the 19 century (with several houses turned into museums – 3 hours away from Sofia), bought himself a T-shirt with “Bulgaria” written on it and a "Bulgaria" sticker for his car, ate my Grandma's baklava, saw the homeless dogs roaming Sofia, admired some of the communist monuments built about the city, was dragged to a Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in the National Art Gallery, rode a post-Communist-leftover open lift to the top of Sofia's nearby mountain - Vitosha while drinking a shot of rakia to keep warm from the freezing mountain weather, admired the snow and clouds covered peak of Vitosha once the lift got us up (the snow was above his knees), survived two visits to the Grandparents where they had him drink Bulgarian smooth red wine, Bulgarian beer and rakia at the same time, saw the trash of the back neighborhoods where people do not acknowledge trash bins and don’t seem to mind living in dirt, was surprised on how cheap is everything for an American, rode on a street tram, was dragged into the golden cupola-ed Alexander Nevski Cathedral in the center of Sofia, my friends showed us to several dives (basements, private apartments) that are only know by a word of mouth – there he observed Bulgarian youth getting drunk, boyfriend was surprised that people smoked everywhere and that my Mom would not stop smoking even while we were having dinner, he saw the rope "system" that my Mom had on the balcony for drying clothes (for some reason she resists the idea of a dryer), he was laughing at me when suddenly I forgot how to say something in Bulgarian (so embarrassing – almost like Madonna and her British accent), he was hugged and kissed by my crying Grandma on the last day before leaving, drank coffee in small glasses, ate Bulgarian cheese (like fetta cheese but much better) and yogurt with honey, he saw communist era apartment buildings (blocks), was amazed by the parking lack of regulations where people simply parked their cars on the sidewalk. There were so many more things I wanted him to see – like the numerous mountains, and the Black See, and the historical towns, and the monasteries, and the remains of the Roman Empire scattered across Bulgaria.
There are so many more things that happened, however I think I should save some for a book or something.
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